


Tea-Kettle Love

by ArabellaStrange



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Boys In Love, Coda, Communication, Episode: s06e12 The Pitch, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Fortune Cookies, Love, M/M, Minor Angst, Money, Patrick's POV, Spoilers, other Roses and Stevie mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23388988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArabellaStrange/pseuds/ArabellaStrange
Summary: Patrick thinks about New York. How do you plan to be unhappy? How can you avoid it?(coda to "The Pitch"—because why not, all the kids are doing it.)
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 18
Kudos: 161





	Tea-Kettle Love

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Series 6 through, somewhat obviously, "The Pitch" (6x12). They both have a lot still to learn.
> 
> Alt. epigraph: "I know that I am like the rain: /[ There but for the grace of you go I.](https://open.spotify.com/track/4Acofe9hICRvyBTP5hFNk0?si=LG4VRmJ4RWCzgN7H1MDzDw)"

_Later that year in the back of the Warsaw_  
_I thought you and I might be okay_  
_Spinning and quiet_  
_You leaned in against me_  
_Said, "I'm gonna have it all some day"_

 _I was born to beg for you_  
_I was born to beg for you_

 _I'd cry, crawl_  
_I'd do it all_  
_Tea-kettle love, I'd do anything_  
_I'd cry, crawl_  
_I'd do it all_  
_Tea-kettle love, I'd do anything_

 _New York is older_  
_And changing its skin again_  
_It dies every ten years_  
_And then it begins again_  
_If your heart was in it_  
_I'd stay a minute_  
_I'm dying to be taken apart_

_I was born to beg for you_  
_I was born to beg for you…_

—“[Born to Beg](https://open.spotify.com/track/7wTRFTaQWhQ3AoHUWKvGAp?si=mC52kjrmQdeSSH2uKxEM1g)” by The National

  


  


For a man who prided himself on his planning skills, it was a little bit embarrassing how often he got things really, colossally wrong.

Obviously there had been the big one: proposing to Rachel. He’d figured it all out ahead of time: one year out, a wedding; two years, a house; three years; kid #1 and a bigger car; four years, promotion for either one of them; five years, either a dog or kid #2, depending on how the first one had gone. He’d planned what to say, where to do it, how to convince her it was for real this time, what he’d have to say to his family, to hers, to his friends, _to hers_ , when people—inevitably—gave them stick for it.

All that planning had been good for him—stabilizing. It did the work of keeping his head on straight (in every sense, he could see now). By the time he actually got up the nerve to make the reservation at the nicer-than-they-could-usually-afford restaurant, they could both tell what was happening. And Rachel was happy, so he was happy.

The thing he’d forgotten, though, was how to convince himself that he wanted it. Of course he wanted her to be happy—that was the whole problem. He forgot that he wanted to be happy too. Not just “fine,” but something… more. Something that expanded in you, wings unfolding in your chest, like when just the right song came on the radio at just the right moment in your mood. Kismet, or stars aligning, or… well, whatever. Music did that, captured that above-and-beyond feeling, even when it was corny and clichéd.

He didn’t plan, by contrast, to leave: he just did it. Felt it building inside him with the exact inverse of that hot, elated, brave feeling from the radio he knew wasn’t real. (He knew _now_ that it was. Just not there.) This was that feeling gone sour, inside-out. He packed after she left, even though he knew it was cowardly to tell her it was over, tell her it was for real this time, tell her almost nothing. He packed on autopilot, which was ironic—some floating, self-narrating, grating voice decided to enjoy the wreck he was making of his life—since he was packing, grabbing the basics and leaving everything else for her (most of it was hers anyway), getting in the car, making his way to the highway and just picking a lane, all on autopilot, despite having no fucking idea where he was going.

 _It’s not forever_ , he told himself after securing not just a job but a room at Ray’s. He went back to the eerie, vaguely illicit motel in Elm Glen (now out of business, which frankly he thought was for the best) where he’d stopped after the first day’s drive and been commuting ever since. He’d probably be back here, he told himself. But at least he could give Ray’s a try, for a month or two if things went well. Then at least he could have a reference for the next job: maybe try things farther along, closer to the coast.

He was, occasionally, very, very stupid.

Now he was closing in on his second full year here. Nothing in his plans had gone the way he’d expected. He’d planned to work for Ray, stay away from dating and just figure himself out, move away once he got his feet under him.

 _You will take a chance in something in near future_ , said the fortune cookie he took when he’d splurged after his first paycheck from Ray and got himself some take-away from Elmdale. Fortune cookies always said useless things like that, he’d mused, crumpling it up. Maybe he could write some. Or at least edit the ones they already made…

Two days later, David had walked in.

 _Maybe it’ll be the same this time_ , he told himself. Not-planning had actually turned out all right so far. Case in point: David was curled around him, elegant coif of hair tickling the bare skin of his bicep. _Maybe it’ll be fine._

He wanted that to be true. But it was really hard to let go, even having been wrong about so many of the best and most important things in his life, to imagine this whole new, sudden scenario and not think… well, he wished he had planned better. Planned for this.

He’d planned, of course, for the reality that David only passingly admitted: Alexis wasn’t going to stay in Schitt’s Creek forever. The writing had been on the wall for a while about that, in his opinion. And after Alexis and Ted had broken up, after David’s and his bachelor party, both siblings seemed to get it and be… well, not happy about it, of course not. As hard as it was for him to say, David loved Alexis in exactly the exasperated, protective, worrying, annoyed, proud way Patrick’s cousins loved their younger siblings, how Rachel’s overbearing but loving older sister loved her, how his own aunts and uncles—well, the nice ones—loved his parents. Plus, it was just a fact of life nowadays: people often didn’t live near their siblings or families. Obviously, Patrick’s small hometown was full of an older generation of folks who had stayed there to raise kids together, people who were like parents to him and whose kids now, frequently, came home when they got married and wanted to start their families. That’s how it would have been, for him, with Rachel: he had planned for it. Thanks to whatever fates intervened, though, he had wound up on a totally different track.

What he hadn’t planned for, then, was when it wasn’t just Alexis. It was a different thing if it was _everyone_ , everyone _except_ David. That’s what he hadn’t actually imagined—or maybe hadn’t let himself imagine. Because that was a choice he would never have asked of David: _me or your family._ He hated that choice, dreaded it in the pit of his stomach and the fibres of his lungs. The Roses, for everything they’d had, had never had much time to learn about each other, to give each other anything that wasn’t a transaction, until they came to Schitt’s Creek. People didn’t always get second chances, but they really didn’t get thirds.

And then there was the kicker: Stevie. Patrick knew, with deep conviction, that Stevie and David could and would love each other even if they didn’t live in the same place. But it was entirely possible that _David_ didn’t know that. When would he have learned it? Virtually everything, it seemed, about love that mattered had only really emerged into David’s life since being here. So how could he know what Patrick had been preparing to remind him, to support him through the steep and painful curve of learning: that you could love people at a distance.

Except them. They were not suited for distance. Patrick went away for a conference and came back to David, poison oak-burned and panicked and hurt. Patrick went to do the bank run one day and got a phone call to say David and Stevie had been _held at gunpoint_. David left him behind during their almost-break-up, and even then, within almost shouting distance of their own town, Patrick had sat in the dark in his room like a teenager and contemplated what it would mean if they really did break up, for real.

No: long-distance was absolutely not an option for them.

And here’s where he kicked himself, because he’d thought that far ahead, but he couldn’t even begin to wrap his mind around how to plan to move to New York. To live with Alexis? To go from small town vendors and contracts they could count in their heads (though he didn’t) to ones that would require triple-checking with a multi-paged spreadsheet overseen by a professional retail accountant?

It would mean starting over. Together, yes, but starting over in every other way. Having to learn—he hated himself for thinking this, but—having to learn how to live on a budget, a serious budget, one that limited pizzas and ice cream and even second-hand couture and beer and days off and… and the house he still wanted. He didn’t want to be the old man in this relationship, laying down some kind of stern law and then wagging his finger at David when he couldn’t stick to it. But how else would it work? For all his incredible skills, and as far as he’d come, David sucked at budgets: why would anyone expect anything else?

Patrick’s grandfather had been terrible with money, too. Not for the same reason, obviously: Grandpop had been that generation of folks who taught men to be professionals in everything outside the home, while depending on the women to handle everything domestic—including the household budget. Grammy Baker had been a sweet, unassuming lady, one who got coddled and, well, patronized right up until her death around Patrick’s thirteenth birthday. But after she died, Grandpop starting having the money troubles that nearly drove Patrick’s dad into bankruptcy twice, that involved his mom offering to take on part-time caring for her elderly and stubborn father, trying to juggle it all with her own job and getting ready to put Patrick through university. Because yes, Grandpop was a kind neighbour, a great third-baseman in his day, a commendable grade school math teacher, a loving husband and father and grandfather, a good man… but he had never learned how to handle money. He’d never had to. And then, suddenly, he did, but he didn’t even know how to learn. Patrick’s childhood had been wonderful, sheltered, in so many ways, but he sometimes thought that even if he hadn’t been the kind of kid who liked things orderly and under control, watching his parents try to stay afloat during that whole ordeal—watching it push the limits of their marriage, of everything—would have made him this way.

It wasn’t like being good with money was a virtue, or something. Patrick was not that naïve. It wasn’t that Grandpop was a bad person. It was a luxury and a skill that involved planning your best for rainy days, for emergencies and surprises and crashes, and all the other million things you couldn’t plan for.

Patrick could do that. Here, he knew, David could do it, too. Was already getting so much better than when they’d started the business!

But the wedding planning had been hard on both of them because… well, it brought out the side of David that hated to compromise. Sure, it was funny when the compromise was over plungers at the store or economy rooms at a conference or what they did for their bachelor party. How funny would it be, though, to lose the business? Or to live on even thinner margins than they were getting now? To work round the clock for a new, huge, possibly unsustainable contract? That wasn’t the first year—or years!—of marriage that Patrick had been hoping, planning for.

It wasn’t going to be pretty, he could see now. One way or another, somebody—probably David, possibly both of them—was going to get hurt.

His dreams took him back to the highway, without signposts or landmarks. He just kept driving.

***

He probably could have planned for, or at least around, the fight they had the next day.

“Now this one,” David shuffled to put the next print-out on top of the pile, “has a split-level layout, so we could actually get some space from Alexis and whatever annoying ‘girl boss’ insanity she brings home until she has her own office. Plus, how gorgeous is this little balcony? Obviously it’s a bit more expensive than the last one, but it’s on a decent street. Good walking distance to the subway. New building, so it won’t smell like a century of dogs or cigarettes or laundry. And look,” he added, as if unveiling the selling-point for Patrick, “ _built-in bookshelves._ Kind of annoying if you want to put in any art, but, plus side, minimalist bookshelves and low-footprint art are both very in, so we can curate that space with some small things and save the good stuff for the living room.” 

“It’s very nice,” he admitted. It was—it was chic, urban, modern. The kitchen looked nicer than any restaurant he’d been to in years, except maybe the place they’d been to on their second date. But… he just didn’t see himself there. 

“And,” David went on, in a tone of bliss, “here’s the absolute best part: around the corner? Is a _cheesecake_ shop! Imagine! Seriously, I think if we liked it, we should get some cheesecakes to carry for the store. New York has a million little bakeries and things like that, it would be absolutely on-brand for us, and, bonus, delicious.”

“Great.” It did sound great. Cheesecake was, actually, a really good idea. Something they could… think about.

“Oh my god, what?” 

Patrick looked up from where he was entering the day’s sales into the restock list. “‘What,’ what?”

David flailed. “Can you please give me a sentence of more than four syllables?” he demanded incredulously.

Patrick didn’t reply right away. If they were going to have this out, he wanted to be careful what he said. “These prices are just… kind of high for what we can afford, David.”

“I’ll have you know I scoured _literally hundreds_ of listings to find these four!”

“An excellent use of your morning off,” Patrick chipped, good humour slipping.

A teeth-bared grimace met this sarcasm. “Patrick. Honey. It’s… it’s cruel and unusual and all kinds of fucked-up, but this is just… what things _cost_ in cities like that! Plus, we’ll be splitting the cost three ways. It’ll be fine!”

This was it: speak now or forever hold his peace.

“David, we cannot afford it.” 

David groaned. “Okay, fine. The stupid removable wall-mural of the Buddha was very gauche anyway. But I think the second one was—” 

“David, we can’t afford any of it. That place,” he pointed to the second one that David was now clunching like a Givenchy scarf (see, Patrick could learn!), “is _nine times_ our monthly rent here. Nine. Do you remember how long it took us to get vendor agreements here? To figure out shipping? I’m not certified to handle the taxes or the licensing in New York, and I have a hard time believing it’ll be _easier_ in Brooklyn than Schitt’s Creek. I just…” he trailed off, because the look on David’s face wasn’t mulishly mad or haughtily pissed off. It was just… punctured. Like a kid who’d just been told their trip to Disneyland had been cancelled.

“We can… we can make it work,” David argued, searching Patrick’s face.

So here was something else Patrick hadn’t planned for: being the one who killed David’s dreams. “David, I don’t… I just don’t see how it would be possible.”

He started to nod, nodding with his lips tucked under his teeth, looking everywhere but at Patrick.

This was… unless... Fuck. Was the universe this cruel? “You.” He tripped over his words. But no, he was going to say this once, if it killed him. “You could go. Ahead—first.”

“What?” David whispered. His entire face had gone opaque, like he did when a topic he really did not want to discuss came up—when he was bracing for pain. Patrick had no idea what his own face was doing.

“You could go. Figure out… vendors and, I don’t know, scout some locations. I can run things here and… visit. Until things are ready.”

He didn’t know where that had come from. Within his own head he was already hating every word of it. Because that wouldn’t happen: if David went—went without Patrick—that would be it. David wouldn’t want to come back, and Patrick… just couldn’t imagine himself there. He'd grown and changed and learned a lot about himself, things he hadn’t known were there to learn. Among those things had been the two, basic, essential things he wanted above all else: to be somewhere he could respect himself, maybe even like himself; and David.

“You would try that?” David was still quiet, more breath than voice to his words. 

“I’d try almost anything,” he said, honestly.

David’s face folded in on itself, mouth twisting, and he crowded up to wrap himself around Patrick. His arms went tight, holding fast, but Patrick held him just as tight.

***

The next week went by slowly. Alexis kept popping up at meals or during store hours, wanting to discuss neighbourhoods and potential clients. Mrs. Rose, likewise, was flying high (not, at least this time, seemingly from anything poppable left over from the _Crows_ debacle), telling everyone in earshot about how excited she was to “pay homage once again to the Melpomenian art!” Even Stevie, who was never excited about anything, had David over and evidently got them both sufficiently hammered to result in several drunk voicemails to Patrick’s inbox. Almost all of them had included David’s high, tipsy giggling behind Stevie informing Patrick of just how much she now understood his “work uniform” of a buttoned shirt and a suit jacket.

Between the two of them, though, things were more subdued. Not angry-subdued: rather, he thought, closer to sad. Gentle with each other. David had even stepped up his already tactile game, which meant that more than once they ended up—at the Café over dinner, or in the car on the way to the ice cream place halfway to middle-of-nowhere-Elmhurst—holding hands at odd angles, not saying much.

Maybe they really could do it. Patrick had (when it had been David’s solo day at the store, or when he’d been off with one of the others) done some research. If they booked a lot of their flights in advance, and if they could convince someone to cover the store once in a while (hell, maybe Jocelyn could come back, as a favour), Patrick could go up for four-day weekend once a month, and David could come back for a week or so, so they never had to be totally apart for more than two weeks. It could be an investment, too. Vendors liked face-time, and that was absolutely David’s strong suit, not Patrick’s. And…

Well, this wasn’t something he was going to lead with. But at the end of the day, Rose Apothecary was their first big success. That didn’t mean it should become a burden that prevented them from ever changing, or… or moving on. It was hard to picture now, but, well, Patrick had been very fortunate when he left things to chance so far. Maybe this was just the bigger lesson he was supposed to learn.

He could live on next to nothing. He’d done it at university, when his own part-time jobs and his scholarships didn’t add up to much more than his bills. He’d done it again during the worst two weeks of his life—when Rachel thought she was pregnant—and they’d started the dreary, plodding work of trying to get excited and financially prepared for a baby neither of them wanted but neither of them had a good enough reason (it seemed) to say no to.

 _For better, for worse_. He knew he could do that this time, for real.

Which was why, when David came home earlier than expected that evening, Patrick managed not to panic at the sight of yet another stapled print-out. 

“Hey.” He kept his hands over the basin of the sink so the carrots he was peeling (the left-overs from the store’s produce today, just gone past their prime enough that they wouldn’t be good to sell tomorrow) wouldn’t drip on the floor as David came over and pecked him on the lips. He wiped his hands on the dishtowels they’d picked from a maker’s market right when he moved in here—a deep, almost black cobalt blue at the borders and a natural, creamy white for the main towel. David had been so impressed at the cleanness of the lines of the dye, the way it was machine-washable (not that he did the washing), the texture. He’d insisted that they would match the aesthetic of Patrick’s new place, an aesthetic which admittedly was 99% of David’s crafting in the first place. Before David, Patrick wouldn’t have given it a second thought, a thing whose whole purpose was to get dirty and eventually to be so stained and/or bleached clean that it ceased to be important what colour it had been initially. But, of course, since bringing them home, they were part of the larger puzzle of the whole place: it only occurred to him, when things were really in a colour palette he liked, with art he enjoyed, lamps and chairs and even (“whisky” be damned) a hand-made coffeetable all to his taste, that he had this opportunity to _choose_ who he was in his space. What it reflected about him. He could _like_ coming home, for a change, instead of forever searching for reasons to work longer hours or stay over somewhere or just take his time getting back.

“Hi,” David smiled softly. And Patrick wouldn’t have thought twice about the tone, after this low-grade emotional week, but up-close he could see that David’s eyes were red-rimmed, puffy.

God. He'd planned to leave once, _assumed_ it was going to happen. But now? He gritted his teeth. Reminded himself what was at stake here. He could do it, he could, it was just... he'd wanted one more day. One more day thinking of this weird, crazy town as home. Maybe that was childish, a stalling tactic, but all the sudden he would have done a lot to put off this conversation which began the end of their lives in Schitt’s Creek and… well, a big leap into the unknown.

David was pulling out a chair at the dining table, facing him expectantly.

“Everything okay?” Patrick couldn’t help but ask.

“I, um… I had a long chat with Alexis this afternoon.” His voice was a little shaky, faintly rough with old tears. He tried to clear his throat, but that just made this seem—well, more like an announcement.

Patrick stopped fidgeting and leaned back against the worktop.

“I think we made a decision,” David went on. With a slightly wobbly smile, he lifted the folded papers up, handing them out to Patrick.

“Can… can I look at it tomorrow? I was about to do dinner, and I don’t want to—” 

“Patrick, just…?” David looked slightly impatient, amusement tinging the annoyance and… well, something like sadness that was still lingering in his expression. 

He glanced down at the proffered bundle. Well, he said inwardly, steeling himself, he could only really start planning if he knew what he was working with. The sooner he knew the price range, the postcode, the specs for the space, the sooner he could start to make plans for handling all the logistics. It could be exciting, he told himself. Something new, something that made David smile. Something they were going to figure out together.

He took the papers. Flipped it open.

Breathless, he looked up at David. “What….” 

“That’s just my opening bet,” David grinned. “Alexis thinks it’s too far from the store in the winter, but I reminded her that you are already selling your death-trap of a car and getting a newer, _safer_ one after the wedding—” 

His body felt frozen, shivers of shock zinging across his skin. “This is a house,” he informed David stupidly. “A house, in Schitt’s Creek.”

“Mm-hmm,” David nodded, grin becoming a smirk now. 

A good house. A little high in their price bracket but... It had a front porch that wrapped around at least half of the house. The pictures had been, cannily, taken in autumn, so the white house and robin's egg blue front door and varnish on the wood of the porch, some of the accents around the windows, all seemed... well, homey. He couldn't take his eyes off it. The renovated kitchen where David could actually move around him and "help" by sampling things. Two bedrooms, none of which had formerly been a closet or elevator shaft. _Doors_ that closed.

“I have no idea what our budget it for a house," David was saying, "or what it means on the second page about loans and pre-approved things? But you are supposed to handle the business decisions in this relationship. I’m just here to make sure it looks good.”

Patrick came to the table, had to sit. He turned the pages face-down, had to be looking David in the eyes for this conversation. “I know you could make that house look good. You could make a shipping crate look good."

"Ugh, please, we do not need to be that trendy. I went to a club in Berlin that was made of shipping containers and let me tell you, 'exclusive' was a very generous word for what happened there."

"David." Cutting this story off before he got sidetracked hating any more strangers from David's past. "This is... I really appreciate this. I do. But if you want to go to New York, you should go. It’s not the moon. And, I've been thinking about it. What does it matter where I live? Here, New York, —” 

“New York will still be there when we visit Alexis,” David interrupted. “Maybe for our honeymoon? Although I still think I deserve a beach. A real one. Not the Rockaways—eugh. Forget you even heard that word. What I’m _trying_ to say here is that… I discussed it with Alexis, and my parents. But she is—” Now it was David’s turn to go a bit speechless, losing the brash confidence that seemed to be keeping him going. “She’ll be fine—more than fine. So will my parents. And it’s going to be, um, really weird? Not to wake up most mornings and know that I’m going to see them, or have to fend off their annoying invitations to bad Café meals, or… prevent them from stealing products, as if we hadn’t told them ten million times that the store was not their personal goody-bag, but…” A tear fell into his lap, and Patrick leaned in closer and fitted his hands between David’s where they were clenched between his knees. Leaned in and rested his forehead against David’s, closing his eyes.

"I think I was... thinking I had to go, for all these reasons that are, uh, not true, anymore,” David went on. “I want to make sure Alexis doesn’t go back to dating trash men. I want to make sure my mother doesn’t drive my father completely insane. I wanted to…” He peeked into Patrick’s eyes. “To show you Central Park, and the Brooklyn Bridge, and the Fashion District… Which, obviously, when I say it outloud, makes me sound like a fucking tourist. So forget that, too.”

He laughed, helplessly. It made sense, though. David wanted the best—that was not going to change any time soon. But he always proved, time and again, that he liked good things better when he could be part of sharing them with someone else. Patrick wanted David to have the best of everything it was possible to have.

After a minute, Patrick found his voice. “All you have to do,” he insisted, low, because this was the only thing that truly mattered, “is promise me you won’t regret it. Please. I won't let you regret it.” 

“I promise. I want to stay here, with this thing we built, this beautiful thing. I want us to keep making it better. But I’m going to,” he flailed a bit in his most eloquent way, bumping into Patrick in the process, huddled in close as they both still were, “I don’t know, okay, I’m going to _miss them_ ,” he conceded, as though it were distasteful, as though it wasn’t breaking Patrick’s heart and entirely part of what made David wildly, insanely easy to love.

They sat there, quietly, for a long while, just being there. He could deal with his own tangled feelings later: for now he focused on David, wiping away another tear or two. Eventually, David leaned back enough to catch Patrick’s eye.

“Fair warning? I’m probably going to be in a bad mood about it,” David gulped, “for a while.”

Patrick nodded. “Duly noted.”

David mimicked the nod. Sniffed. 

“In which case,” Patrick muttered, hoping it wasn’t too soon, “I think you did have the right idea.” 

“About what?” David asked, confused.

Patrick could let himself smile this time. “Cheesecake.”

***

Faint patters of rain were falling against the windows the next morning. Patrick stroked light circles into David’s back before either of them was really even awake.

“What, um.” David cleared his throat, scratchy with sleep. “What time is it, d’you think?”

“Still early,” Patrick replied reassuringly. He didn’t want to get out of this bed.

Instead he opened his eyes, looking down at the steep angle of his chest to meet David’s gaze. His face was so soft, so adorably open, and Patrick loved him so much it hurt. “I wouldn’t go anywhere without you,” he heard David say. “For the record.”

With a small exhale like a laugh, Patrick looked at him softly, hoping he heard in it… even half as much love as David made him feel. “I would go with you. Anywhere.”

David’s eyes slipped closed again, and Patrick allowed his to do the same, just for a minute. They didn’t have to get up just yet.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Alt. to the alt. epigraph: "Like him, she had tried the scheme [of moving] and rejected it; but such an alternative as [staying] had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all the affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much, very much, to be borne with." [[spoilers if you haven't read that masterpiece](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/158/158-h/158-h.htm#link2HCH0051)]
> 
> Just my punt at what might happen. Poor Pat's face at the end of 6x12 said both that 6x13 is gonna be a doozy, and that it's all going to be all right... in time. (Part of my ongoing campaign: Schitt's Creek, but make it Marxist(-er).) xx


End file.
